The Gentleman and the Rogue (5 page)

The strongest emotion Alan had felt in months was restless self-pity, and so he almost welcomed the fury that surged through him. He got to his feet, walked around the table, and held out a hand that didn't tremble, thank God.

“Give them.” He could barely force the words out.

For once Jem didn't speak. His smile vanished. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the chess pieces, and dropped them into Alan's hand. He rose and stood with feet apart and hands at his sides, as if waiting for the blow. By God, Alan was ready to give it. He grabbed the front of Jem's shirt and hauled him closer.

“You bastard. Why?” Then he felt like an idiot for asking. When a man picks up a rat from the street, he shouldn't be surprised when it bites him.

“Habit,” Jem said after a moment. “Idiocy.” He watched Alan's free hand, but still made no move to push away or defend himself.

Alan let go of the shirt and thrust his fist up and into Jem's stomach, but not as hard as he'd hoped, because the creature had thrown himself backward.

“Ain't gonna let you hurt me,” Jem said, all traces of jolliness gone. “No matter I deserve it.” He turned and walked toward the bed. Did he turn his back on Alan in scorn? Or perhaps a sign he knew Alan wouldn't attack from the rear?

Alan lunged. He managed to grab Jem by the back of the collar. But a second later, he gripped nothing but clothing.

Jem must have been unbuttoning the shirt as he walked away, because the coat fell to the ground, and the shirt tangled with the waistcoat dangled in Alan's hand.

Jem turned to face him. “I get my own stuff so as I don't leave here naked, sir. We part ways, and that's that.” He crossed his arms over his pale chest. “I'm stupid, and I'm sorry, and that's a fact,” he said matter-of-fact, no cozening in his manner.

“That easy?” The sense of betrayal still raged through Alan. He wanted blood.

“Not easy, sir. No.” His voice broke. Of course the street rat regretted being caught. He'd lost more than a single payment for his whoring. He'd lost his chance with Alan.

That passing thought stopped Alan in his tracks. Chance? At what? Nothing. Nothing.

Yet oblivion had lost its appeal. He wanted to stay alive to beat the life out of the treacherous Jem.

He circled Jem, who pivoted on his heel, watching, wary. Alan had kept his attention on the man's hands. He made the mistake of looking up. Their eyes met and held.

Lust muddied his outrage. Both boiled in his gut. But lust meant Jem held power over Alan, and he would not allow such a thing. The charmer would not get away with stealing from him. He wouldn't let the man take his possessions or the uneasy peace he'd found when he'd decided to end his own life.

Cursing, Alan went for him again and grabbed his arms, hard, wiry flesh under his hands. Jem was a slippery fish, twisting and pulling. He'd obviously been grabbed before, and Alan had a flash of a life spent escaping from clutching hands. No sympathy, he warned himself. He'd treated the man well, fed him, and was rewarded with thievery.

Jem had escaped. His chest rose and fell fast, and he pushed his overlong hair from his eyes as he backed toward the door with cautious steps, like a man escaping a wild animal. Yes, thought Alan, I am an animal. He'd have to get the man before he escaped. But now Jem was against the dark wood of the door, reaching for the handle.

Alan threw himself at him, and they tumbled to the floor. Limbs entwined, scrabbling, grunting as Alan tried to get on top of him and hold him down, and… But suddenly he was on his back. The smaller, slighter man straddled his chest, knees holding his arms pinned. Good God. Alan had been trained to fight. He could kill a man with his bare hands and had more than once. Where had he gone wrong? He knew the answer, of course. He hadn't gouged Jem's eyes or thrust an elbow into his throat.

The rage at Jem had been exhilarating; he'd felt life pouring through him, but now the fury turned inward. His soft nature hadn't allowed him to escape the army and war with his spirit unscathed. And now again he'd proved he couldn't be ruthless enough to stop this undernourished rat from defeating him.

“Alan. Sir.” Jem shifted. He held Alan's wrists with his hands now, and he peered down at him. “You still wanta kill me?”

Alan didn't bother to answer the wretch. He was too aware of the strong hands encircling his wrists, and it wasn't fear that touched him. He wanted those hands, with their scrapes and scars, to move down his arms.

“You look fair grim, sir. Get mad. Suits you better.” The light bantering manner had returned. It only served to make Alan feel sick and foolish to think he'd fallen under the spell of the man.

Jem leaned close enough so Alan could smell the brandy and peach on his breath. “I shouldna done that. Stolen from you.” So close, the moisture and heat of his mouth feathered Alan's skin just below his ear, and his body prickled with anticipation. Damn and blast, the arousal created shivers in his belly, hardening his cock.

“No, goddamn you, you shouldn't have.” With a mighty heave, Alan threw Jem off, twisting hard to the side at the same moment. Jem flew and landed on his back. He missed the carpet, and his head made a loud
thwack
on the bare, polished wood floor.

Alan rose to his feet, ready for more, but the other man didn't move. Shit. Alan dropped to his knees.
No more death. Not Jem.

Of course not. This was a sham. Alan shook his shoulder. “Come on, you bastard. Wake up.”

He sat back on his heels and glanced around the room, searching for brandy, but the glass was empty. Damnation. He put his hand on Jem's bare shoulder, gently now. Stroking down to the tender skin of his inside arm. He couldn't trust the man, didn't think he could leave him alone in any room of the house, but he still desperately craved his touch.

“Come on, Jem. Open those eyes.”

Lust didn't mean a blessed thing. He swallowed hard. He'd ignore the dismay he'd felt when Jem's head had hit the floor with a sickening thud, just as he'd ignore his relief when he saw Jem's eyelids flutter.

“Ow.” The younger man groaned. “Aw, God's ballocks. I fucked myself royally, din' I?” No more imitating his betters.

Alan's chest expanded with his sigh. A dull pain lifted as he exhaled breath. “You're a fool,” he said, and realized he still touched the man's arm.

“That I am, sir.” He pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed the side of his head.

Impatiently Alan moved his hand aside and checked for blood, but only felt the huge goose egg on the back of Jem's head. Alan bit back the automatic apology that rose to his lips. He had nothing to be sorry for. The whelp had tried to steal from him and had suffered the consequences. But Alan couldn't fight the urge to gently sift his fingers through the sandy brown hair and try to stroke away the pain. He paused with his hand cupping the side of Jem's head and once more stared into the younger man's wide blue eyes, so innocent-seeming.

“Will you let me go?”

“Well, I'm hardly going to call the constable, am I?” Alan took his hand away from the silken hair and the hard skull beneath, and as he did so, he suddenly felt bereft. This was the end of his evening. The lad would leave now, but not before Alan paid him his half crown anyway—such a meager amount for the extreme pleasure he'd given him. Alan realized he didn't want Jem to disappear back into the festering slum from which he'd come, never to be seen again.

He also realized that his plan to end his life didn't seem as inevitable as it had earlier that evening. The sex, the companionship, the laughter at Jem's silly joke, and even the anger over his thievery, had all conspired to make him think of something other than the necessity of blowing his brains out. Had life suddenly become a little less dire because of the thief sitting on his bedroom floor, cradling his head in both hands? He suspected that once Jem left him to silence again, morose inertia would settle over him once more. He didn't want to let go of this temporary distraction yet.

“Do you want to go?” he asked before his logical mind could pull the reins on the impulse.

“Pardon, sir?” Jem looked up, elbows on knees, hands still cupping either side of his head.

“Do you have another pressing engagement?”

The youth stared at him warily. “Why? What do I have to do to make up for the stealing?”

Alan waved a hand. “I'll forget that, provided you promise no such further behavior. Trust me, you wouldn't make it out of this house unscathed. Badgeman would see to it, if I didn't.”

“What, then?” A frown still knit his finely arched brows. “You want another free fuck to make up for what I done?”

“I don't want a free anything. I'll still pay you what I owe for the evening's…entertainment, but it's late—very late—and I thought you might wish to sleep here tonight.”

Jem's eyes widened again, and his brows rose as if Alan had asked him to climb naked on the roof and crow like a rooster. “Now there's an abrupt left turn. You've gone from trying to split me head open to asking me to stop the night. I don't often find myself flabbergasted, but you've left me speechless, sir. Absolutely speechless.”

“Not absolutely,” Alan said drily.

He had almost a lifetime of predictable, calm behavior, and in one evening he'd indulged in the most sinful of activities and displayed a range of volatile emotions he hadn't indulged in since his fourteenth year. That was the year he'd bounced between bleak despair and rage, when he'd understood his perverted taste could not be banished by icy baths or vigorous, exhausting exercise. At least as a lad he hadn't lost his mind. Tonight apparently he had.

Jem rose to his feet, wobbling and squinting. “Ugh.”

“Your head is still injured,” Alan said. “You should have the devil of a headache for a time, and someone should watch you, wake you on occasion.”

“Naw, no need to worry about my head. It's hard as a horseshoe. But if you care to wake me, I won't object.” Jem leered then simply grinned as if he laughed at himself.

Alan rubbed his cheek. “I'll ring for Badgeman to take the dishes away.”

He considered going to look for the ex-sergeant to explain privately that his guest would be staying the night, but he didn't want to leave Jem alone with all the tempting objects. The thief might hoist a window and toss some of the better pieces out into the garden to fetch later. And Alan didn't wish to explain a bloody thing to Badgeman even if the big man's concern was touching. They'd been through so many corners of hell together… But no. Not tonight. No more ghosts of the past tonight.

He went to the bell while Jem silently pulled on his clothes again.

Badgeman appeared almost immediately, as if he'd been awaiting the summons.

“Take the dishes away, please,” Alan said.

Badgeman glanced at Jem, silently asking if he should also escort him from the premises.

“That will be all,” Alan said firmly. “I won't need you again tonight.”

“Are you sure about that, sir?” The ex-sergeant added a bleak rumble of wordless disapproval. Loyal till death and beyond, he'd never be most householders' notion of the model servant.

“Yes,” Alan said and thought
no.

Badgeman bowed low, which he did only when thoroughly nettled with Alan. He lifted the tray. “Hungry, were you?” The tone made the question, directed at Jem, an accusation of gluttony.

“I was as well,” Alan said.

“Ah.” Badgeman paused, the tray in his hands. His eyes gleamed with pleasure, and his near-ruined mouth quirked up briefly. The big man was pleased.

The door closed behind him. “Do we remove our clothes again?” Jem's hands were already busy unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Alan's cock loved that idea and went into a full stand at the anticipation of Jem's smooth body. He shook his head. “We should be certain you're well enough…”

“Aha, you say that because you have something on your mind other than sleep, Lord Alan? See, where I come from, if you get a chance to be somewhere warm and private-like, where no one'll pinch your clothes, you shed them quick as you can. They last longer that way.” He paused after he pulled the shirt over his head. “Not that these are mine. I know that, sir. Just that I love sleeping in the natural state.”

Naked and with a semierection, Jem took a running jump and landed on the bed—then winced. “But it does appear I should move a bit more slowly.” He lay back with a long sigh. “Oh, just about perfect.” He turned his head to look at Alan. “Only thing missing is you.”

The man had turned confident again. Cocky.

Alan had put on his boots. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull them off again. With his back to Jem, he cleared his throat and wondered what he could ask. That he should have such delicacy—scruples about prying into the young thief's life—amused him. “I have made it clear you don't have to provide anymore, uh, service, so I wonder if the fact that you appear willing to…to…”

“Act as catamite?” asked Jem. Alan couldn't see him, but he heard the laughter in his voice.

“Indeed. Do you enjoy the act?”

“Indeed,” Jem drawled in a bad imitation of Alan, then hooted with laughter. “Oh, indeed, rather, yes, sir. I love it. Not always, mind you. Some fellows reek and make me fairly lose my dinner, what little I've et. And some…” He stopped.

Boots off, Alan stretched out on the bed fully dressed. He looked over at Jem. “Go on.”

Jem's mobile mouth was thin. “Some loathe their own craving, and that means they gotta hate me—particularly once they've spent. I'm better now than when I was younger at spotting those poor creatures and at fighting them off when need be.”

Alan recalled his own self-loathing after he'd reached his pleasure only a couple of hours earlier. Jem, the street whore, would call him a “poor creature.”

“Do you know how many men you've, ah…”

Jem shook his head. “I don't talk of such a thing, begging your pardon, sir.” He grabbed the counterpane and pulled it over his naked body. He gave another sigh and grinned. “Ahh, but I've never been with another who possessed such fine”—he paused to wiggle like an agile fish—“fine bedding as you, sir.”

Alan wasn't going to give up the questions. He'd grown curious about Jem. “Do you usually steal from your customers?”